


Solitary and Detested

by splix



Category: Frankenstein - Nick Dear, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is cast into exile on Midgard and discovers another outcast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary and Detested

“I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”

\--- Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

 

*

 

There was little point in regret, not when one was plummeting through infinity, tearing a black hole through gossamer webs of stars and ethereal color, cleaving space with the speed of his passage, and yet as he fell, unable to gather breath even to shriek, he knew anguish as he saw the diminishing ruin of the Bifrost, the tiny and insignificant figures of his one-time brother and the merciless All-Father. He fell too swiftly to identify the worlds passing before his eyes, worlds of glaciers and burning rock and voluptuous greenery. And when he landed, it was with a mighty crash that split the ground and shattered his bones, leaving him gasping, blind, in pain.

He lay still, a cold, soft breeze wafting over his aching skin, and listened to the nothingness that surrounded him before he opened his eyes. When at last he did, he saw a pale grey dome of sky besmirched by smoke-colored smudges of cloud. He turned his head to one side and saw a vast expanse of half-frozen land, broken by gently rolling hills. He saw a small lake, and a field of rock speckled with hardy and minuscule plant life. It was all vaguely familiar.

With a start that jarred his broken bones, he perceived with a stunning and ferocious clarity that he had come to rest in Midgard. Midgard, so beloved of Thor. Had the All-Father cast him here with cruel deliberation? What misbegotten jest was this?

Though it sent shards of white-hot agony through his broken body, he laughed, choking cries of bitter mirth. Midgard! So be it, then. Let him lie here; let the crows pick at his flesh. It was a fitting punishment for he who had stolen Loki and beguiled him with false love and false sympathy even unto their very last moment of communion. How simple it would be to work a healing spell, to repair his flesh and rise and plot his vengeance, but he would not move, nor take nourishment. He would spite them, and when his body wasted away and left only his spirit, he would plague them forever. There was a most exquisite symmetry in the notion. 

And so he lay utterly still, as the weak Midgardian sun passed thrice overhead and rain and snow fell from the grey dome of sky, binding him to the ground with a rime of ice and bringing an ache to his exposed flesh, but his divine constitution was yet strong, and though the pain of his splintered and disjointed skeleton began to drive silver nails into his senses, he would not move. He was conscious, now and then, of a figure on the distant horizon – a curious human, staring out at a soon-to-be corpse, waiting for the scavenger beasts, perhaps, too frightened to approach. _Wise decision, human. Keep your distance._

Time passed, so much that he ceased counting, ceased marking the passage of the day-star above. The pain increased, bringing a fever that shocked him with its strength. Heat like a flame that engulfed him, then a cold that curled his body inward, setting it to trembling. He grinned at the absurdity of it, but even that small effort pained him. He gasped as he shook, but accepted the suffering calmly. It was easier to assert one’s will over one’s own flesh than another’s, and for the moment, he wanted the simpler path. Lifting a hand, he examined it in bemusement. Thin and white and cold: a dead-looking thing. He let it fall to the frozen ground and closed his eyes. He had never detached fully from his corporeal form and wondered if he should make the attempt. Musing on it, he fell into uneasy slumber, and terrifying dreams, reprising his last moments on Asgard. Thor; Odin. Falling, a maelstrom of eternal space. And now Frigga, his beloved Frigga, gazing at him with weary unhappiness and disappointment in her fathomless eyes.

How could she wound him so grievously? Odin stood between them suddenly, and Loki cried out and struck at the All-Father, the hostage-taker, the deceiver, the thief. Thor’s hand caught his, gentle and immeasurably strong, and Loki struggled and shrieked his defiance, thrashing and biting, howling in agony as Thor lifted him and held him close and carried him away from his parents. Inexorable, Thor laid him upon his sleep furs and stroked his brow, smoothing back tangled and dirty hair as Loki glared at him in mute fury and excruciating pain. With an effort that sank fiery claws into every fiber of his shattered body, he sat up, but the suffering overcame him at last, and he fell back, insensible.

*

Awareness came gradually, and with it warmth and a pervasive sensation of comfort. He opened his eyes, turned his head, and the pain struck him again, blinding him and leaving him breathless. How fragile his body had become. Unbearable. Perhaps losing his flesh for the sake of spitefulness was not the best course of action at present.

He closed his eyes and murmured the spell that would repair his splintered bones. A blissful sheath of comfort enclosed him, a warm gold liquidity that spread through the tortured paths of his hurt flesh and slowly joined them together, knitting the smashed pieces into wholeness. The pain dissipated, and though he ached still, it was a bearable ache, a healing ache. 

Once more he turned his head and saw that he was in a hut of some kind. It was a wretched, miserable hovel, no larger than four paces in any direction, windowless and poorly illuminated by rushlights. The furnishings were meager, crudely built of rough wood; a clay stove stood in one corner, atop which simmered something that smelled appetizing. A shelf held a few items of battered cookware. The only concessions to comfort were the thick if odoriferous furs that covered him and kept him warm, and the stacks and stacks of books against one wall.

In Asgard, his chambers would be empty – beautiful, comfortable, and now useless withal. His place at table would soon be filled by another, his name spoken only in discreet whispers, if at all. His hands clenched at the furs; his teeth ground together in white fury. He had been consigned to _this_ , whilst on Asgard, they feasted and slept and disported as if he had never been one of their number.

Then again, he never _had_ been; more fool he for not reckoning sooner with the All-Father’s deceitfulness.

A soft scraping of wood against stone forced his head round, and he stared in slit-eyed suspicion at the figure entering the horrid little room. Cloaked and hooded the mortal was, the hood pulled so far forward Loki saw only the gleam of an eye as the creature advanced toward him, one hand extended in placating fashion.

“Stay back, human, or I shall split your skull in twain,” Loki hissed. He sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in his still-healing body. Fleshly frailty – another curse Odin had laid upon him, no doubt. “Stay _back_ , I say!”

“I mean you no harm.” The voice within the hood was soft, male, and rusty, as if infrequently used.

“That is prudent, for if you attempt to harm me, you will know agony, I vow it.” Loki clung to the furs, attempting to hide his weakness by remaining motionless and supremely dignified. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You were lying in the cold for days. It was a miracle that you did not die.”

“It is no miracle, mortal.”

The human stood motionless, his hand still extended. How pale was that hand, the fingernails a greyish blue. “I have food for you.” He backed toward the stove and bent to it, working in silence.

Loki watched the human’s movements. The man was slow, his motions deliberate. If he attempted to attack, there would be ample time to retaliate. And it would not be long until his full strength returned. The food would help. He would consume it, kill the human, and think what might be done next. Not return to Asgard – not yet. He needed time, and might he did not now possess. There were others in the Nine Realms, though, who would come to the aid of a prince who promised them power and riches. Whether or not they received them was hardly his concern. “Where is this place, human?”

“Are you not human as well, sir?”

“Do I look like a human to you?” Was he not cloaked in radiance? Surely mortals discerned the presence of a god in their midst. Or had the Aesir been away from Midgard for too long? Humans rarely called upon the gods, and that was well, for they were altogether too stupid and insignificant even to trifle with. Rare was the mortal who caught his eye.

“Your manner of speech and dress is strange, but I have not spoken to another in many years.” The human creature turned with a shallow wooden bowl in his hands and offered it wordlessly.

Loki snatched the bowl and drank the contents, a thick gruel with root vegetables. It was a poor substitute for the delicacies to which he was accustomed, but it nonetheless filled the gnawing hole inside him with some authority, and he felt stronger at once. He handed the empty container to the human. “Have you meat?”

“I do not eat meat, sir.”

“You do not eat meat,” Loki mused. He ran his hand across the thick fur that covered him. “You use their pelts.”

“They were already dead. I will not kill another living thing to consume it.”

“Then you are very foolish and I pity you.” Loki looked around the hovel. “Where is this place?”

“It has no name that I know of, but we are near the Laptev Sea.”

“It is desolate. How do you come to live here all alone? I presume you are alone.”

“I am.” The human turned away, his head bowed. “I am outcast.”

Loki smiled, a bitter, needle-like smile. “Then we have something in common, human. So am I.”

 

*

 

His strength was slow in returning, For three passes of the watery, weak sun, Loki remained buried beneath the man’s furs, eating his food and only now and then rising to attend the call of nature. Loki watched his host suspiciously, alert for an attack, but he treated Loki with the deference due a god, presenting him with the softest furs and the greater portion of food. At night he slept upon the floor, swathed in his cloak and one of the crudely sewn pelts. He must have been cold, but never complained – indeed, hardly spoke a word. He disappeared for long stretches of time, returning to feed his guest and see to his comfort.

“Why do you hide your face from me?” Loki demanded on the fourth day. “I begin to suspect you have some evil intent.”

The mortal sat near his cookstove, reading by one of the rushlights. “My face is not pleasing to look upon.”

“Is that so?” Loki rose soundlessly from the bed and crept up behind the human. “Look at me.” When the man half-turned, Loki snatched at his hood, tearing it from his head. He had a fleeting impression of many scars before the man uttered a roar and launched himself at Loki. Loki grasped the man’s wrist and tightened his hand, forcing the mortal to his knees. “Don’t try that again.”

The human emitted a soft whimper and fumbled to cover himself again. “I am sorry. I am sorry. Please do not look at me.”

Loki’s grip on the man’s hand increased, and he smiled; his strength had returned. He yanked the hood back once more and stared at the bowed, scarred, discolored head, upon which no hair grew except in sad, small tufts. “Why should I not look at you?”

“I am repugnant,” the human whispered.

Loki placed two fingers beneath the man’s chin and tilted his face upward. He stared into the man’s eyes, then considered his face dispassionately. “You’re no great beauty, I grant you, but I have seen far uglier creatures than you.” He thought of the Jotnar, of his own heritage. “What do you call yourself?”

“I have no name.”

“Everything has a name.”

“I was never given one. I was not considered worthy.”

“Why?”

“Can you not see?”

Loki’s heart clenched. Even the All-Father had seen fit to grace a squalling Jotun runt with a name, even if he had made the runt painfully aware that he could never attain the honor and status, the roaring fires of glory that had been bestowed upon his golden hero-brother. In Odin’s eyes, Loki would never be more than glimmering embers, easily trampled underfoot. But he had given Loki a name. “Then your father was most cruel, was he not? You should have repaid his kindness with a dagger in his chest.”

Tears gleamed in the mortal’s eyes, and he bowed his head once more.

A most unexpected surge of pity bestirred itself inside Loki, and he flung the man’s hand away. The man scrabbled to the door, fumbling his hood back over his naked head, and hurled himself into the night, where the wind howled and icy snow beat against the surface of the hut. Loki ran to the door. “Come back, you fool! You’ll perish out there!”

He could follow, give chase, but why discommode himself for such a pitiful creature?

Loki stepped outside the hut, blinking against the raging storm, but saw nothing. “Mortal! Come back!”

The howling wind answered, high and mournful, a reproaching wail.

“Fool,” Loki muttered, and stalked back into the hut.

He sat up the night through, keeping the clay stove and rushlights alive, waiting for the human’s return, though he knew not why, and it troubled him. When the man staggered back inside, shuddering, Loki draped a fur pelt over him, then another, and led him to the fire. “Stupid creature,” he said. “What madness possessed you? Do you not know a jest when you hear one?”

“I yearn to die,” the man said softly.

Loki snorted. “Then you are more feeble-minded than I had first thought. Do you know what happens to spirits who depart their mortal forms with deliberation? They are doomed to wander the Nine Realms as lost souls for all eternity. Why would you knowingly condemn yourself to such a fate?”

“I am already a lost soul.”

“Spare me your prattling,” Loki replied scornfully. “What would you know of such things? So your father would not name you – by the All-Father, there are far worse things in the scope of one’s existence.”

“Indeed there are,” the man said. “Shall I tell you of them?”

“I doubt I would be impressed, mortal, but by all means, do. I suppose accepting your hospitality these past few turns requires such.” Loki saw the human’s shoulders hunch and once more he felt unwilling pity. “I am sharp of tongue, creature. Pay it no mind. Tell me your tale.”

The man began to speak. Loki’s indifference alchemized into incredulity, astonishment, and finally, an aching sympathy that puzzled and angered him. Of all mortals, surely this thing, this compound of dead flesh, this assemblage from the charnel-house, created by a madman with delusions of godhood, merited only contempt, with his trifling account of anger and petty revenge and remorse and thwarted love. 

And yet, and yet.

“Why?” he burst out at last. “Why did you choose to live in this terrible wilderness? Why did you not remain and visit destruction and ruin upon those who caused you such pain? Cling to what life you have, and take your revenge!”

The man’s mouth twisted up in a half-smile, though his eyes were weary and sad. “What would it serve in the end? Humans see me and are frightened. They know me for what I am – a dreadful calamity, unworthy and detestable, an abomination who should never have drawn breath. Who am I to say they are wrong? And why should I fight them? My master is gone these many years, his body withered to dust. I have no kinfolk, no friends, no soul who cares whether I live or die. It is best. Here I atone for what I have done, Loki Laufeyson; here I wait to die.”

“And yet you do not die,” Loki spat. He rose to his feet and paced the tiny hovel. 

“No, I do not. I linger on, unchanged in body and soul. All the things I craved nearly two hundred years ago I crave still: tenderness, gentleness, the simplest affection. I am a dead thing, and I should have given up hope long ago, but I have not. I am accursed for it. Loneliness shall be my eternal punishment.” The man huddled before the fire, his body still shivering with cold, or emotion.

A strange tightness coalesced in Loki’s throat. “How well I know,” he said quietly, and then urged the creature to his feet. With a restraint that was wholly unfamiliar to him, he guided the man to his own bed.

“No – the bed is yours.”

“It is your bed, creature, not mine. I have little need of sleep. No – I insist. Sleep.”

The man’s cold hand caught his. “You are kind.”

“And you are cold.” Loki sent a surge of warmth into the man’s hand, guiding it along the veins until the creature’s body was warm once more. He glanced down at their clasped hands and thought of his true nature. _You believe you are ugly, mortal, but how little you know of true horror, poorly conjured though you are._

“How…what did you do?” The man stared at him in bewilderment. 

Loki turned away. “Sleep, creature.”

 

*

 

As the snow fell heavily, nearly enclosing the creature’s hovel in drifting frozen whiteness, Loki lingered. It was passing strange that he felt no particular urgency to leave, to begin his vendetta. Instead, Loki watched the man, listened to him, and discovered that his presence, simple and oddly innocent as it was, soothed his raging heart. In the blasted-white daylight he travelled far and coaxed the roots and tubers and plants into growth so the creature might not starve, and satisfied his own hunger with the wild things he killed with his own hands. At night he looked upon the ravaged face and found it not entirely horrifying; no worse than his own true face, at any rate. And he gazed at the creature’s form, lithe and graceful despite its origins and occasional odd twitches - leavings, no doubt, from its crude composition.

One night the man looked up from his bowl of gruel. “You must eat, Loki Laufeyson.”

Loki ignored the gentle suggestion. “What if I were to help you take revenge on those who have wronged you, creature?”

The man regarded him in silence for a long moment. “All who wronged me are now dead.”

“They have descendants, who would doubtless shun you if they laid eyes upon you. Humans are ever capricious and stupid and inconsistent – they look with fear upon the useful animals of this realm because they are not sleek and pleasing to the eye. Wiping them out would be a kindness and a balm.”

“They are all that, I agree. But I am weary of anger…and yet I am tempted. You are the first man I have spoken to in more than a century, and the only man who has never recoiled in disgust at the sight of my face. I deserve the deepest pits of Hell for considering your offer only that I might have your companionship for a little while longer. No doubt I will live forever.”

“Your heart is too soft, creature.”

“And yours is so hard. You have youth and beauty. Why are you outcast?”

“Yours is not the only father whose cruelty is capacious. I was stolen as an infant, creature, and raised in a household where I was always slighted, always second-best.”

“You were deprived of love?” the man queried.

“I was _deceived_ ,” Loki snarled. “Cheated of my birthright and left to founder, ever dimmed and diminished by my brother’s prowess, by his limitless arrogance and his unending stupidity.” A gale-wind blew against the hut, and Loki fancied he heard cries in it, his mother’s, his brother’s, pleas and implorations. He turned resolutely from the sound and bared his teeth at the man. “I’ll have my vengeance upon them, and when they beg for mercy I shall laugh and grind my heel into their hearts. I –“ He sank to his knees. “I shall make them pay for hurting me.”

The man rose to his feet and placed a tentative hand on Loki’s head, stroking gently.

Loki stared up through tear-blurred eyes. “You should not be kind to me, human.”

“I know a lost thing when I see one, Loki Laufeyson, and all lost things need kindness.” 

The man stroked his hair again, over and over. The sensation soothed Loki yet brought more tears to his eyes. He dashed them away angrily and looked up at the man. “I can give you a gift,” he whispered.

The creature frowned. “What gift?”

“Wait and see.” Loki rose and brushed his fingertips over the man’s face, then moved down his arms and legs. The man stiffened, an expression of fright upon his face, and Loki held up a forestalling hand and fetched the armor he’d discarded days before. He rubbed it to a high sheen and held it before the man’s face. “Behold.”

The creature gasped at the reflection of a man in the flower of youth. His skin was no longer discolored and scarred; it was ivory-pale, but unblemished, and tinted here and there with the healthy flush of life. His face no longer bore traces of the grave. His mouth was full and softly pink, his eyes sparkling, the shade of a summer lake, his hair no longer mere tufts but thick ringlets the color of Asgard’s wintry sunsets.

“How….” The creature stared at him, and tears formed in the shining blue eyes. “How?”

“It is your true form,” Loki said. Not perfect honesty, to be sure, but Hel knew this poor thing had known enough cruelty. 

“No. No. It is illusion.” The creature flung the armor against the wall and turned to flee the hut.

Loki caught his arm. “I thought it would please you.”

“You taunt me.”

“No – creature, wait. Do not run. Look at my true form.” Loki released the man’s arm so as not to burn his skin with the sting of deepest cold, then closed his eyes, allowing his Jotun nature to take hold of his corporeal form. “Look.” The man turned, and his jaw dropped at Loki’s blue skin, his scarlet eyes. “Is it not terrifying? This is what I truly am. _This_ is what my father and mother saw every day, not a comely youth. We are no different, you and I.” Swiftly, he allowed his body to revert once more. “Do you see? Do you know that if I had touched you, you might have died from cold? A Jotun death is not a pleasant one, I assure you.”

The man held very still. “You are not human.”

“I never said I was. I told you – I, too, am outcast.”

“I am sorry.”

The wind rose again, a melancholy counterpoint to the creature’s soft voice. Impulsively, Loki stepped forward, cupped the man’s cheek with one hand, and kissed him, pleased when the soft lips yielded to him. “Don’t be sorry. Do you dislike this form? I can give you another.”

“It will not last.”

“Nothing lasts, creature. All beauty fades. It is the way of things.”

The youthful face was pink with a sudden blush; the smoothly muscled chest beneath the ragged shirt heaved in short, rapid breaths. “Just once, I would…I would know the touch of a willing body.”

Loki placed a hand between firm thighs. “I am willing.” He pushed the man to the bed and slowly peeled off his clothing until he stood naked. Then he reached down and divested the creature of his disreputable garments. He gazed down at the man. “I can return you to your ordinary form, creature. You have only to say the word.”

“What if we both wore our true forms?”

“I would kill you if I mated with you – if I but touched you.”

The man nodded, tears gathering on his lashes. “If I do not disgust you overmuch, then….”

Loki nodded and placed a hand on the man’s chest, and in a moment he was as he had been.

“I am sorry. It is only that….”

“I understand,” said Loki, and sank to the bed, gathering the creature close. He felt no repugnance as he kissed the scars, the marks of ancient and long-missing stitchery. He kissed and caressed the body beneath him, and felt the man’s long limbs winding round him, clasping him close. Every artful resource Loki possessed, he used, and soon the creature was keening softly and clinging to him. Loki felt the man’s body trembling like a tautly drawn bow beneath his, and when he finally took him completely, he cried out in pleasure and a strange joy.

They lay together afterward, huddled beneath the furs. 

“You are no monster, Loki Laufeyson,” the man said, turning onto his side and touching Loki’s cheek. “You –“ A strange expression stole over his features.

Loki frowned. “What is it?” He sat up and grasped the creature’s shoulder. “Are you ill?”

The creature smiled, though clearly he suffered pain. “You have given me what I yearned for.”

Loki shook his head. “Creature, stop this. Stop.”

“A gentle soul, beneath. Go back to your family, Loki.”

“Be silent! I am not a gentle soul, you fool. You – I command you to stay with me, creature. I command it.” He watched the creature’s skin turning a strange greyish color, not so different from his Jotun skin. “Creature!”

The creature reached up and touched his cheek, and then was gone.

“Fool,” Loki wept. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms round them, then covered his eyes with one hand and laid the other on the scarred chest of the creature. “Fool.”

 

*

 

The boat stopped, halted in its progress by a great chunk of ice, but it had gone far enough for its purpose. Loki watched the flames leaping up toward the starless sky. “Rise swiftly to the holy mountain, creature. Revel in beauty for all eternity.”

He turned away, his limbs trembling. “Are you pleased, All-Father? Did you laugh to see him perish?” Tears trickled down his face and froze. “Is it your will that I should not even have the smallest of comforts in my exile? You sent me here, to this blighted land, this malignant plague of human filth who casts out their own. How comfortable it must seem to you. I curse you. I curse you.” He stared upwards. “But I vow I will not remain here long. Wait for me. I shall return.”

“Laufeyson.”

Loki froze. A terrible foreboding overcame him at the sound of that soft voice, purest oppression. And then, he smiled.

“Yes.”

 

 

End.


End file.
